


You Must Make Your Heart Still

by sirfeit



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Blood Magic, M/M, dreams and shit, implied peter/roman, peter is a werewolf, weird narrative structure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter sends a letter. Post-series, based on the book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Roman Godfrey_  
 _124 fdsfsfsfsdfsfd_  
 _Hemlock Grove, PA_  
  
 _R,_  
  
 _did you save my ponytail? you’re a sick bastard. anyhow, i saw shelley. what’s with the potting soil? i don’t get it._  
  
 _who the fuck do you think sent this_  
 _don’t be retarded_  
  
 **O**  
  
The post office is in Georgia. Lynda knows someone around here, they might visit for a few days and then head out. He’s fidgety, nevertheless; can’t wait to get out of here. He might be half-Italian but it doesn’t matter. Not these days.  
He sucks on the papercut absently. It’s starting to rain, the first few drops hitting the pavement like glass shattering.  
Wow, Peter. Shit metaphor there. Keep it up. Do you feel it in your _Swadisthana_?  Some Gypsy shit all up in this. Keep it up.  
Why’d you send a letter, Peter darling? Why’d you bother, Peter darling? He doesn’t mean anything to you.  
Never had friends before and this is why.  
Because you always leave them.  
That’s some Gypsy shit, alright.  
  
 **O**  
  
They keep driving. They drive all night and Peter drives and they sleep in the car and thank god they’re not in Georgia he would give anything not to be traced back and he writes another letter  
he writes little letters short ones  
writes them in his head and they go straight from his heart  
 _you must make your heart still_  
 _still._  
to the page and there’s no _reason_   
you don’t contact the dead Peter not after they’re gone  
not after you’ve left  
you don’t mean anything to anyone and that’s the way you like it.  
God  
 _fucking_  
dammit.  
  
 **O**  
  
At least you don’t send them. That would be stupid.  
You keep having these -- dreams --  
wouldn’t call them that  
 _don’t wake up don’t wake up please don’t wake up this time_  
You know waking up is usually considered to be socially acceptable.  
 _and don’t scream don’t scream i couldn’t handle it if you screamed_  
bloodfilled  
peter wake up wake up it’s okay  
It’s been eight days.  
  
 **O**  
  
His nerves are jittery before he changes so he jacks off behind the gas station.  
You want to know what he thinks about?  
He’s not going to tell you.  
  



	2. the cry of the left-behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It changes to Roman's point of view. Kind of.

What do you need?  
Peter.

Why are you here?  
I just want to be your friend. You shouldn’t be out there alone.

At what point does trusting you make me a fucking idiot?  
Oh, Peter. I think that point has already passed.

**O**

Destiny. The scissors. The candles because this is some gypsy shit he doesn’t understand, magic and the supernatural and he fits into those categories too now but -- “Are you sure you don’t want to read it?”

Swallows. He meets her eyes. He smears the back of his hand over his face. She looks at him. He is an ugly person; wide shoulders long face, but god he’s ugliest when he’s weeping. He’s pathetic. Don’t you know better by now?

“Okay.”

Snip. Spread out in front of her, like a map. At the end of it, the treasure. She’s a leprechaun leading him to the end of the rainbow and this is why he can go no further.

“I got you these.”

Organic dark chocolates. Rumanceks prefer trade to charity. She doesn’t look at them. Snip. Snip.

“Hold out your arm.”

He does and her hands juxtapose with his like some kind of obscene metaphor and while he’s thinking about the implications of that she cuts him in the crook of his arm, crooked man lives in a crooked house on a crooked lane --

She presses his blood to the paper. It becomes bloody. He doesn’t know what he expected. He doesn’t know what she expects. He had another dream last night. Don’t scream, I couldn’t handle it if you screamed. You know what fear tastes like? Yeah. I know. Someone’s thumb on his bottom lip. Someone’s fingers on his --

“Here,” she says, pointing. “I hope someone has some fucking mercy on you.”

**O**

What she is trying to say is “still”.

There are continents to cross and ten thousand moons in between them. He isn’t going to wait around for them to pass.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fanwork by myself and a friend, but we both took opposite directions with it. (Our writing styles are very dissimilar so it may have been for the best.) This is my half. Part. Thing. Sorry it's so weird.


End file.
